


Does It Trouble Your Mind . . .

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: You Only Meant Well? [6]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB Frisk, Comfort/Angst, Everyone Needs A Hug, Family Feels, Friendship/Love, Gen, Identity Issues, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Non-Binary Frisk, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route - "I want to stay with you."
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9333497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Frisk realizes that their greatest struggle against Chara is much the same ashis, and knows that no Perfect Happy Ending can exist as long as he still thinks he's deserving of exile: as long as he still thinks he's as good as gone and forgotten and can be nothing more than what he's been made into.But who he was and is leave the lines impossibly blurred between what's an act of MERCY and what might destroy the ones they love.Or: ". . . the way you trouble mine?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> (A more direct continuation of [_All the Heavens_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9168043), with references to the rest of the series thrown in. Contrary to the other works in _You Only Meant Well?_ , which are somewhat standalone, reading that first will help in understanding this. 
> 
> Aaaand I'm still Soriel trash so that's in here, too.)
> 
> Headcanon ahoy.
> 
> As for the obligatory lyrical inspiration? Well:  
> ". . . Exile,  
> It takes your mind again.  
> Oh, you've got sucker's luck.  
> Have you given up?
> 
> Does it feel like a trial?  
> Does it trouble your mind the way you trouble mine?
> 
> . . . Exile,  
> It takes your mind again.  
> Oh, you meant so much.  
> Have you given up?
> 
> . . . Does it feel like a trial?  
> Now you're thinking too fast.  
> You're like marbles on glass.
> 
> Vilify.  
> Don't even try. . . .
> 
> Did you fall for the same empty answers again?"  
> (The National, "Exile Vilify," from _Portal 2_.)
> 
> Also somewhat inspired by a rewatching of _Pan's Labyrinth_ the other night. Not sure how or why, but there we go.
> 
> Comments/reviews/critiques/thoughts are all welcome and appreciated and do my soul good. I hope you enjoy. <3

****

  _Asriel smiles, too, and does not recognize the tears his own._

* * *

 

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND."

Papyrus' hands are delicate, surprisingly so, as he reaches for the flower, as a withered petal falls and lands atop Sans' old pet rock. "WHY—"

Frisk gently stills his arm. They're startled, if not astounded, that he's never before encountered this—encountered the death of a living thing. Not this way. Surely dead branches fell in Snowdin Forest; surely the Echo Flowers withered, too; surely, over the years, he's known Monsters who were one day there and the next—the next—were not.

(But Sans, from love, could be overbearing and protective—so perhaps Papyrus doesn't understand, and certainly not when death to his own means dust rather than rot. Of course this is something new.)

"Don't touch it, P'yrus."

"BUT—"

"Sometimes." Frisk glances once more at the flower, turns away; better, in some ways, that they don't look at it too long. It reminds them—

"Sometimes, P'yrus, living creatures—all of us—Humans, Monsters, plants—we die."

"BUT NO ONE KILLED—"

"It's not kill or be killed!" Frisk grasps at the words, spits them out, knows it isn't fair to take it out on innocent Papyrus but—

"Sometimes things just die. For lots of reasons. See? They grow old. Or they get sick. Or hurt. Maybe this flower—maybe the sun was too bright, or they were watered too much, or." They shrug, stealing a glance over their shoulder; then their gaze flicks up, catches Papyrus'—his eyesockets are wide; more malleable than Sans', his expression registers doubt and disbelief and shock and—

Sorrow.

"IT WAS A GOOD FLOWER."

"Yes."

_. . . He . . . A-Asriel . . . as Flowey . . . P'yrus, that's why you kept this thing? Because it reminded you of him—just like me? Except you didn't know—don't know—no one really knows except—_

Frisk sinks down onto their bed, ducks their head for a long moment until they feel the skeleton's gloved hand against their shoulder.

"FRISK. DO NOT BE SAD. IT HAD A GOOD LIFE. WE SHOULD . . . WE SHOULD HAVE A FUNERAL. I'VE NEVER BEEN TO ONE, BUT I THINK THAT'S WHAT YOU DO WHEN SOMETHING . . ."

"Someone."

". . . DIES."

And his face is so earnest, so naïve, so loved that Frisk finds there's nothing they can say.

* * *

The ground is hard, though the snow easily gives way beneath the heft of a spade until the blade strikes dirt and then the painful shock runs up Frisk's hands. Papyrus catches their expression—P'yrus, ever gay and somehow childlike, is somber now—and takes the spade from them to strike again. Toriel makes a sound of disapproval and kneels down to check Frisk's fingers, wrists; to fret; Sans, head tilted to one side, merely looks on. Frisk knows that expression, knows he's ever calculating how this (or any other thing, however miniscule) might impact them, what it might remind them of, what onslaught of rekindled rage or fear or pain or misery it might trigger.

To that effect, to all the subtle aberrations, they've become each other's refuge.

They lay the flower in the earth. Toriel, ever-practical, has insisted that they save the pot. The little, wilted stem and ragged leaves and the few remaining petals look pathetic there, in the tiny hole, in the deep, dark earth to swallow it.

"WHAT DO WE SAY?" Papyrus asks, still clutching the spade.

Frisk glances over, sees Mom reaching for Sans' hand, realizes too quickly that this isn't a time for words she'd know, from a Monster's funerary litany. She's said them twice over too many times . . .

Kneeling down, with wind-chilled and unfeeling hands they scoop the dirt back into the hole, pack it down with a broad-palmed and resounding blow. They remember words, vague words, intoned by a woman in a cassock and stole over another grave; there was more than Frisk remembers, but all their tongue gives them is this:

"Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust—"

The word's out before they realize what they've said.

And Toriel's turned on her heel and is gone in a flurry of white fur and a heavy coat, before Frisk can call out after her, can beg Mom to come back—please, please come back—because they didn't mean—

* * *

"dust to dust."

Sans finishes the rest of it (who knows where he learned it from?), helps Frisk to their feet, takes the spade from his brother's unresisting hands.

"WHY IS EVERYONE SO UPSET?" Papyrus shifts his weight from foot to foot.

"'s okay, bro. don't worry about it. thistle'll be a good spot for your flower, and."

He, too, gives pause: he, too, Frisk realizes, has made the same connection.

"We should mark the ground somehow," they offer, clawing desperately and awkwardly for anything, anything at all, to keep themself and Sans from splintering apart. Mom—Mom— _We should have thought of Mom before we did this—no—n-now I-I've hurt her and—and—_

 _(No—what Asriel told me—I am not—am not—_ they _have nothing on me—_

_('this weirdo's got nothin'—')_

_(I._

_(Please. Sans._

_(Help.)_

His eyes bore into their own, but the nod he gives is amicable enough, a thing Papyrus won't think too much about. "so it's holly."

"Holy," Frisk whispers, shivering, sure he knows the line he's crossed, that if they wish to mark the . . . grave . . . those words have as good as desecrated sacred ground. ". . . So it's holy."

* * *

But it isn't really about the plant, not even to Frisk, who'd rather pet vegetables than dice them. They search for pebbles underneath the snow, the three of them, let Papyrus set them out in a geometrical design before they turn away and head back to the shambling house that creaks and rattles in the wind and lets in sharp winter drafts—but still, but still, it shelters them.

* * *

Sans stands at the door, raises his hand, wonders about knocking. Wonders if he shouldn't pay a visit to the room next door before this one. But Frisk had seemed upset enough at Toriel's departure that they'd want him here, with her—he'd seen the look they gave him—

Toriel says nothing; on slipper-shuffled feet he slips across the threshold, treads carefully across the floor with muffled step, a moment's final pause. And then he crawls into bed beside her, into the cocoon she's spun for herself from blankets and rekindled grief—into the bed too big for just the one of them, or so it's seemed since—

She's shed too many tears and far too long ago to weep anew but there are thorns against her throat. She says nothing, cannot speak. He too says nothing, chooses silence, lays there with her in the sorrow of all the things unsaid and the warmth of them, the both of them. There are many life-affirming things, of which this is one, and when in the end she gives a cry, muzzle pressed against his collarbone—there are still no tears to shed, and bittersweet, oh bittersweet, is all of it.

* * *

_I'll be back tonight. I have my phone. I'll call if I'll be late. I'll be okay. Please don't worry._

_I love you._

— _Frisk._

* * *

The pack leaves a saddle of sweat in the small of their back and Frisk's breath is a forlorn, heavy sound in the winter-quiet woods. They'd spent some time with P'yrus, played a game or two, made sure he wasn't lastingly upset by what had happened. If ever upset, he was never so for long, and Frisk was glad. They'd reached out to Alphys and Undyne, said it was a hard, bad day—for everyone—asked if he could stay with them. Just for the afternoon, just until the sky got dark. Belatedly they realize that should have been in the note as well. ( _He has his phone_ , Frisk tells themself. _Sans'll call him and it'll be fine._ )

And anyway, Mom needed Sans, and Sans—for love—couldn't always figure out just how to balance the new equation that this Happy Ending gave. It had always, always, almost always just been the two of them, just him and Papyrus. Now . . . ?

Frisk shakes their head, stumbles on a boulder, regains their feet and upwards, onwards, climbs.

* * *

They don't know, really, what they're doing.

Don't know what they'll say.

But here they are, the maw of the mountain opened to the bowels of the earth: broken barrier or no, this is still the quickest way. Or was, last time, with Sans to get them down.

Now Frisk sits at the precipice, pack at their side, mouthing a stash of Mom's cookies and wondering just what to do. Would their voice carry if they were to simply shout? He's able to traverse the Underground, after all, and seemingly at will—can his roots bear him up here? Can he even _survive_?

_One thing at a time. Get down._

They eye the descent, heart lurching at the depths of it, hands pressed against their chest as if their SOUL as well might leap for fear. Even now they don't fully remember first climbing up Mt. Ebott: even now they can't distinguish quite what was Chara driving them and what thoughts were their own. It doesn't matter, though, not now, because now it's only _them_ and he's still down there and so lost and so alone and so afraid.

They know that all too well.

Frisk draws a breath in the frigid air, the cold of it snapping back against their lungs and chilling them from the inside out. But it's breath enough for them to shout into the pit—

* * *

" _Asriel_!"

* * *

He stirs.

It hasn't been more than a week since they last came, but the sap is sluggish in his veins and he thinks he's slept or dreamed but doesn't know how long. Their voice is an echo, like the sun he's felt but once before, or Mom when she smiled at him— _at him_ —or what . . . it was . . . to love.

Love?

It frightens him, because he did not expect it, because he had forgotten, because he doesn't know what now to do with it that it is given back to him—love, of all things—love if not his body but this form—love if not for his SOUL.

But love he still can feel . . .

Love pulls him, lulls him from his lethargy (he understands now what Sans became). Love incarnate calls him, is calling him, as he once—he once—called for Chara—and in their stead, far stronger in most timelines than they, instead came _them_ —his saving angel—Frisk.

* * *

" _Asriel_!"

* * *

He stretches himself from the soil and the stone, squirming through the bed of flowers, staring up, up into the filtered sky and the weakened sunlight and the furthest branches of the colossal, sleeping trees.

And there he finds their silhouette, expectant, poised, staring down at him.

"Frisk?"

But they can't hear him, not up there.

His stem aches but he stretches higher, roots crawling at the soil, the bed of flowers he implicitly promised to take care of offering him a bed of roots their own on which he can anchor himself more steadily. "Frisk!"

* * *

Bright eyes flash wide in the watered light, their teeth gleam in a grin.

"Howdy!" is their reply.

* * *

It won't do to ask them what they're doing here, not yet. He understands what they must want, wills vines to sprawl up from the ground, around a ruined pillar, upwards, upwards towards his friend. His . . . best friend . . . his . . .

"Frisk, can you reach—"

"G-got it!"

A tremor runs through him; down the vines he feels the settling of their weight as they grasp and slip and cling to him, cradled there in the latticework of his body. Cradled in his arms.

( _Chara—Chara—Chara—_ )

He remembers—can't afford to forget—but can't remember _now_ —what it was when Chara overrode his SOUL, when Chara took Their joined and reformed body and carried their own corpse into the world, eager to start a war, to end all things, to destroy, _destroy_ Humanity and Monsterkind and—and Everyone—

Chara was never content to be an angel—Chara wanted to be a God.

"Asriel? It's . . . high . . . up here."

And there, the moment's hesitation and Frisk's trembling trepidation jar him loose. Gently, gently he curls his vines all the more securely around their stocky frame, bears them downwards until they can disentangle themself and stand—but they _don't_ stand—they kneel, they kneel so that their head is level to his own (however much he's stretched himself upwards)—and press their cheek to his.

They weep?

But they are smiling.

Asriel smiles, too, and does not recognize the tears his own.

* * *

"tori?"

She stirs from a fitful sleep. Would that she could tell him she has nightmares, too, based just as much in reality as his. Hers—she sees their eyes, mostly, pleading, glassy, asking her the thousands of questions she doesn't have the answers to—

The house is still. The stillness frightens her, but Sans doesn't seem concerned—not yet—and he's become something of her litmus test. She will always worry for Frisk, for their child, but—

"hey. tori."

Her hand instinctively seeks his, her body searching for his warmth, just the closeness of him, knowing that he's there.

Except he's not. And now that she thinks of it, his voice—

Toriel opens her eyes, finds the sun casting long tendrilled fingers down from the windowpane; the afternoon's half gone. And Sans stands at the bedside, dressed, a note offered between phalanges somehow steady. She takes the slip in a massive paw, knowing part of what it says already, even if she doesn't know the words.

Until his hand is at her shoulder, steady.

"Sans—we need—where are they? Where—"

Frantically she throws the covers off, stumbles to the armoire, fishes for a dress, a coat. The hangars rattle underneath her paws. The air is cold—her teeth are clenched against it—against the cries she doesn't dare give voice—the fear—again, always, the fear—this time there's no one to protect them—this time—

Warmth.

Her brain registers it dimly.

Warmth, and the gentle stilling of her hands.

A blanket wrapped around her, shielding her; only now does she realize that—

"toriel. c'mere."

_He has not used my full name since—_

It doesn't matter, doesn't matter, Frisk is out there—

"Sans, _where is my child_?"

"toriel."

Again, full name, and again when she looks there are the dark, dark eyes without a drop of light. His expression never changes: the smile never fades: but there are subtle aberrations there in the jawbone and the divots above his eyesockets are dark and even the cheekbones there flicker uneasily in shadows. He's never pled with her before, nor it seems would he with anyone, except for this.

"have a sit, tori. c'mere." He takes her hand, shares the bed beside her, seems somehow to siphon the trembling from her frame because now, oh now she's still and she doesn't know what's worse.

"remember when i said, tori, that RESETs can never go back to the beginning? well, the beginning. that's . . ."

The nightmares—children—dead—children who do not turn to dust—children whose bodies she could still hold, could still fathom _how_ they died—children whom she'd have buried if she could—flash before her mind and it isn't Sans she sees or the old, familiar room when she moves to wrench herself from him, to fly for a coat and the door and her child—her sweet Frisk—must have gone up there—again—again—where else—

That they gave a time of return in that paltry note doesn't seem to matter.

No.

Because they're out there alone.

And if this is all the doing of that terrible creature—who knows what happened last? When she and Sans were there to save them?—no, no, if it's that _thing_ . . . Toriel's paws clench, the tendons tautening until they ache, indigo flames licking from her claws. _I will—I will—_

There is no room for MERCY now.

* * *

Sans sets his teeth, steps into the darkness, meets her at the door—and the look then that he wears, one eyesocket flashing cyan, gold—she's never seen that look before, not even when he's so afraid.

Toriel steps back, the breath suddenly a shallow thing against her throat.

But Sans' hands are upheld, she sees them trembling, sees the agony across that face and the ever-present grin.

"toriel." She's heard that tone before. Exhaustion: utter, swallowing exhaustion. "tori, please, listen to me. one last time, tori. just once. it's not like a RESET, which can never go back to the beginning, but what happened in the interim—before they—"

* * *

"Asriel?"

They've been silent for a moment, leaving Asriel to worry at their weariness. They slump against him, barely able now to hold their weight, as if the sum of their strength has been to get them here, and whatever's going to happen after this—well—they hadn't planned so far ahead.

And now that the moment's come, all the thoughts they've had, all the elaborate arguments and reasoning and premeditated rebuttals to his own possible objections are evaporated, gone, lost to their leaden limbs and the remaining stickiness of Mom's cookies on their tongue. Above all, all else, is the heaviness against their SOUL, and the words catch and it hurts, it hurts, and they can't help but cry.

"A-Asriel. Come home."

* * *

He stares in shock for a moment, torrential fears and the same old agonies at war within his mind, the same darkness as left him weeping alone at the flowerbed, last time, when Frisk—when they came, before leaving the Underground—when for the second time in his life, he thought nobody would—

"I . . . am not . . . they wouldn't know me. M-Mom. She's called me a terrible creature. Frisk. She doesn't know . . . I'm not myself . . . I c-can't . . . I. I . . ."

Tenderly they cup their hands against him, wondering at the mixture of pollen and fur there at his cheek—conglomerate it may be but soft, so soft it is, like Mom's . . .

"You are still yourself, Asriel. You are, you are. You can still feel—you could always feel—could always love. Y-you used your powers for good when you first realized them. You tried, you tried going back to Mom. You _h-hoped_ she could make you feel again. That . . . Asriel, you . . . you were never not yourself. Just . . ."

"I was lost," the vaguest whisper. "Just like all the others were, w-when you . . . before you . . ." A sharp shudder through the stem, the awkward rustling of leaves, a fresh warm wave of tears. "You . . ."

"We SAVED each other," Frisk firmly posits, smiling through pursed lips a smile that had little mirth but all the strains of misery and hope. They refuse to take credit for it, any of it; they're not really the angel: would that the Monsters could know the truth, that it was _he_ who broke the barrier, not them. "Asriel, believe you me, we did."

"M-Mom . . ."

"We can explain it, Asriel, we can. Alphys will back us up, about what happened. So will Sans."

 _Smiley Trashbag_ flares across his mind and Asriel desperately swallows the thought, damns it to hell along with everything else he's done in this form, the weird and savage, reckless, vicious things that all, that all were really just a cry for help, a cry no one answered or recognized for what it was until Frisk did. With a will he forces himself to turn back from himself to them, to the quiet words against their lips.

"It—it might take time, you know, but Asriel, they'll see who you really are, I promise you. Just please, just please, come home. I won't leave you. I won't abandon you, not like they did, I won't leave you alone, I won't, I—"

"Frisk." A slow, slow breath, catching on itself; he can scarcely form the words. "Frisk, I'm so alone. I'm so afraid. Down here, it's . . . there are echoes . . . Frisk, sometimes I _see_ them still and I . . ."

"Don't be. Don't be. Asriel. I won't let you go. I won't. Y-you convinced yourself that you don't have a SOUL, that you can't feel, but that can't be true. You've told me so, even if you don't realize it. W-what you told me when it was . . . when I was . . . when _they_ . . ." Frisk convulses, swallowing a wad of bile, forces the laughter of Chara from their mind: can't shake, though, the feeling of the Real Knife and _his_ face—his face among the petals—begging for his life. They can say no more.

And Asriel, Asriel begins to realize, too, that for however much their family loves them, however much they might share with Sans, there are certain things woven only between the two of them—more precious, more vicious and more tenuous and—

(Always, always there is the third—)

The same vines as cradled them curl around their shoulders once again. Something wells up within him, the same feeling as before, before when he couldn't stand it, couldn't—dare to hope—of love—that was a dream long, long forgotten—

"How?" he manages finally, a hollow song spun to uncertain notes.

Frisk shifts, gestures to their pack. "I have a pot. It's, uhm, it's small, but we'll get you a bigger one."

And the absurdity of that thought is more than he can stand, than they can bear; the both of them dissolve, as children so often will, into a fit of giggles, until Frisk's side aches and Asriel's leaves curl in upon themselves.

"I—can—try."

Deep, wide eyes, _his_ eyes, stare into theirs, tear-struck still but dazzled, dazzled with more than he'll let on, with the shadowed imprint of the leaden winter sky above, the light.

"T-They'll see me and just think of Flowey."

Frisk shakes their head. "Flowey wasn't what you always were and isn't what you are. Asriel. I promise. Trust me. Please. You're so afraid—and I am, too—but if you're so afraid that you just stay down here and don't ever . . ." They shake their head. "I'll never stop trying to SAVE you. Let me spare you from this, Asriel, from . . ."

Chara's lashing out, a subtle, savage thing, a sensation Frisk can't quite explain—but Asriel, who can sense them resonating, still, must feel it, too, because he tenses up, wanting nothing more than to pull away but never, never willing now to leave his Frisk, his friend, alone.

"From them" is what Frisk meant to say in closing; "From yourself" is what came out.

And he knows both are true.

For himself.

For them.

* * *

"tori, you didn't know."

"But I _attacked_ him—when he—when he tried to kill—why would he try—Asriel would never—I mean, C-Chara sometimes—sometimes they—the spiders—but—I never thought—they wouldn't—"

"tori, from what i know, it's complicated."

Sans leans back into the pillows of the paltry couch, hands folded resolutely in his pockets. There is nothing yet to ease her mind than seeing him again, no matter the form, but to hear his voice—she'll know. And whatever's happened in the past . . . He shakes his head. They've done things, all of them, bad beyond telling . . . Well enough she can sit with what Frisk's done, as much as he does, and well enough she still trusts him even knowing that he's broken his promise. Once or twice.

No, she'll see him and—

He isn't one to hope, but for this, the next-to-last piece in the puzzle, one more knot in the rope of Frisk's promise to him of no more RESETs . . . for this, Sans knows he must.

* * *

Asriel, struggling still to adjust to the constraints of the meager ceramic pot, leans back against Frisk's shoulder, marvels at the feeling of being held, of being carried, of being cradled and kept safe, because he knows they won't let any harm befall him. He marvels, too, in speechless wonder at the chill against his petals, leaves, at the snare in the wind and the snap of even a weakened winter sun against his eyes. He and Frisk say nothing as they scramble carefully down the slopes of Mt. Ebott. In such silence, perhaps, there might be time to fear but mostly, mostly, ah, no, he feels his heart and Frisk's pounding as one. Feels the empty, once-thought-SOULless space a-trembling, the recognition that he's only been so lost to himself—

And not so forever, thanks to them.

The town, the lights flaring up through the late-afternoon gloom; Asriel stares in wonder, is oblivious to marginal looks of passersby. Did he as a child walk with Chara through Snowdin? And play in the woods? And come home to some pie and tea? It's hard to sift through, all of it, even the memories built from the lies he told himself so bitterly across the centuries. But this, this seems nice, and real, and welcoming.

"We'll be home soon," they whisper, shifting the pot in their weary arms.

Home.

He's spat that word at them a hundred times and with a different tongue but now, but now, to hear it fills him with hope and love and with—

**Author's Note:**

> Things I've Learned This Fic:  
> 1) Papyrus is hard to write.  
> 2) I can't seem to write anything _but_ serious!Sans. I'm sorry? No, seriously, I'd love to have some puns to throw in here; none seemed to fit, and the ones at the funeral--well. Frisk's reaction sums up pretty much how I felt.
> 
> Also, I've been thinking of illustrating this series; would anyone be interested in seeing art, or shall I just leave all this up to your imagination? :)
> 
> Finally. A cliffhanger? Or something. I'm sorry. That's what my brain gave me, and I'm not about to argue.


End file.
